


Campaign

by moth2fic



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-07
Updated: 2007-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you conduct an affair in the White House? It doesn't help if your lover is in the closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Campaign

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to Lindsay for the American beta.
> 
> I wrote this as three loosely linked stories between 2005 and 2007 then finally put them together as one.

 

 

1.Fireworks.

It was dusk and the first of the fireworks was fizzing into the deep turquoise of the sky. The final draft of the speech lay on his desk where the printer had spat it out. Sam stood at the window, watching. He hadn't bothered to turn the lights on, and he probably wouldn't. He had always adored fireworks. Something about their transience and their deep pure colours made the back of his throat tingle, and he secretly looked forward to the fourth of July like a kid anticipating sweets. He was too tired, too drained, to go to the official White House party. Once the speech was finished all the adrenaline, all the urge to perfection, left him in a rush and in its place came a lethargy, a kind of depression. The fireworks over Washington might cure that - serotonin for the soul.

 

They had all made plans, booked flights, or train tickets, phoned friends or family, long before the holiday. Going through the motions, Leo called it. Believing in the tooth fairy, Donna said. But still they did it, every time. And every time the delays and the schedules and the deadlines crept up on them. So here they were, as usual, and here he was, watching the fireworks from a window in the White House, alone.

 

He sensed, rather than heard the door. Then there were quiet footsteps and Josh was beside him.

"Hey, Sam, any good ones yet?" Josh sounded tired too. And when Sam turned to answer him he must have been standing awkwardly and too close, maybe because the window alcove wasn't that big, because his lips brushed Sam's cheek, feather light, easily missed, but real. The he stepped back, but neither of them spoke. No apologies. What was that maxim? Never complain; never explain. Good advice for those in political life. Sam sighed inside his head. He wished, for the thousandth time since taking the job. The touch of his dreams had to be an accident caused by the shape of an office window. How sad was that?

"Over there," he pointed left of the window. "Someone has spent a fortune. Spent it well. Probably a corporate hospitality event but still…"

 

They watched for a while in silence. Deep blues and reds and golds lit the horizon. Purple seemed to be the new colour this year. The window was slightly open and they could hear the muffled thump and crackle of the small explosions. Occasionally, Josh started, perhaps at some visceral level taken back to the shooting. Sam glanced out of the corner of his eye. His friend seemed intent on the scene, serious but not unhappy.

"I love fireworks," Sam offered. "Truly, madly, deeply. Always have."

Josh put an arm casually around his shoulders. Two friends enjoying a firework display. Sam felt a thrill whoosh through him like a Roman Candle, and suppressed the feeling firmly. More reds, some rose pink and a shower of silver. Stars raining down on the city. The sky was darker now, and the real stars were blotted out by the celebrations.

"What do you like best, rockets or the ones that burn at ground level?" Josh asked, his voice very close to Sam's ear. Sam looked round cautiously but Josh stayed close and this time their lips were a centimetre apart.

 

"Anyone in here? Why are you guys standing in the dark?" Toby could be relied on to dampen a moment of magic. Sam backed away from Josh's slackened arm.

"Fireworks, Toby," he reminded him. "It's Independence Day, in case you'd forgotten."

"I hadn't forgotten. I've been busy. Well, you know that. You've been busy too. Are they over yet?"

"The best ones probably are," said Josh, as Toby switched the lights on, oblivious of the effect he was having on their night vision.

"Did you want something? I thought we were finished?" Sam thought he ought to ask.

"Oh, some of us were going to make a night of it. Hit a bar and drown our sorrows. Well, Leo won't be doing any drowning, but CJ and Donna wondered where you two were. It's Independence Day, after all." He gave a lopsided grin. Sam sighed out loud, but closed the window and picked up his jacket from the chair back where he'd slung it earlier. "Lead on," he said quietly, and they headed for the hallway. Josh's arm brushed his as they left the building. Another of those frequent accidents that lifted his spirits and crushed his hopes in equal measure.

 

000000000000000

 

The bar was anonymous, comfortable and dimly lit. Leo had a celebratory orange juice then wished them goodnight.

"Don't stay up too late. I need your brains tomorrow," was his parting shot.

The others sat with a second bottle of wine open and partly empty.

"I should have been home by now." Donna sounded accusing. "I rearranged my ticket three times."

"Donna, it's not my fault we were behind schedule." Josh sounded as though he'd been through this conversation already.

"I didn't say it was your fault. I just said I had to rearrange, and now I had to cancel. I just thought you should know."

"I do know. How does it help that I know?"

"It doesn't help. But at least you know."

"Well, now we all know," CJ joined in, "And I imagine we've all much the same tale to tell. But at least we get to spend the evening with some of our best friends." She raised a glass. "To us. To the brains Leo needs so badly we don't even get time off for good behaviour." She emptied the glass and the others copied her.

 

They chatted about the speech, about the finishing touches tomorrow would require, about the president's likely last minute changes. They were all thinking about their own changed plans, their dashed hopes or just their tiredness. Sam didn't say much. He sat watching Josh. His face was in shadow so he could let his eyes feast on his friend's face. Had that moment at the window meant anything? Was it just more of his stupid wishful thinking? He was sure his subconscious would be only too eager to deceive him. Maybe if he stopped hoping, he told himself for the hundredth time, he could get on with his life. Unfortunately, he knew by now that his hopes would continue to haunt him. It would need a major confrontation and disaster to exorcise this ghost, and major confrontations were something Sam avoided at all costs.

 

CJ and Donna were talking about all the clothes they'd bought for holidays they'd never taken, events they'd never attended. Josh was teasing them, telling he had a sequence of jackets, one new, for special occasions, one middle aged, for daily wear, and one old, for relaxation. What more could they need? Shoes, CJ pointed out. Shoes were the key to a happy life. Donna wasn't sure. She thought perhaps hats, hats with matching scarves and gloves. Handbags, mused CJ, then with a glint in her eye suggested ties. Sam looked down involuntarily at his own. Josh had loosened his, and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He looked sexy and relaxed and thoroughly dangerous. Sam lost track of the conversation and rejoined it as CJ was telling an amusing story about one of the foreign journalists and the confusion caused by English English and American English speakers thinking they spoke the same language.

Something about 'solicitors', he thought, but he'd missed the main thread, and did not really care. All English lawyers were solicitors - was that it? He wasn't drunk, but he'd drunk enough to feel sorry for himself. He didn't really want to sit here any longer listening to White House gossip, watching his White House friend, and remembering his White House blues.

"I'm seriously tired, guys," he said, rising and draping his jacket over his shoulders again. "I'll see you all tomorrow." He was proud of himself for leaving without looking back. Small victories like that punctuated life and enabled him to face the ongoing battle.

 

Then he heard Josh say, "Wait Sam! I left something important at your apartment. I'll walk home with you and grab it now." Before he could remind Josh that it was at least a month since he'd visited the apartment, and so whatever it was couldn't be that important, they were out on the street, heading away from the bar. They walked in silence. Sam tried desperately to think of something to say and discarded each thought in turn. Josh seemed relaxed, just as he had in the bar, and in the office, earlier. A few late stray fireworks still hissed into the air. The night was warm and quiet.

 

00000000000000000000

 

Sam fumbled with his keys. They weren't their normal shape or size. His door key was deliberately hiding on his key ring. Josh took them from him and opened the door with no problem. Betrayed by his own keys. How much had he had to drink? He headed for the kitchen and the coffee maker. Josh was sprawled on the couch, obviously not about to leave.

"Coffee?" He didn't expect an answer and spooned coffee into the machine anyway. He hoped Josh wouldn't notice that his hands trembled as he put the cups on the low table. The blinds were still up and Josh took his coffee to the window.

"No more fireworks, but you have a good view from here."

"It's good from here, too." Sam knew he ought to have bitten his tongue out before the wine spoke. How often had he tried to avoid this? Being alone with Josh after a drinking session was so not a good idea.

 

Josh turned, silhouetted against the window, and placed his cup on a bookcase. "Come over here," he said. "There's something you ought to see." Sam's feet were apparently happy to follow instructions and he found himself at the window, looking out over Washington for the second time that night. Only this time, Josh's arm round his shoulders was anything but casual.

"What did you leave here?" he heard himself ask, desperate to break the silence.

"Well, definitely my sanity," he heard Josh reply, as if from the other end of a long tunnel. "And probably my heart."

And the fireworks began all over again.

 

2\. Trail

 

They had been travelling for what seemed like years. Leo said it was only weeks but nobody believed him. Donna thought they might meet themselves coming back and Toby said they should be so lucky, they were more likely to disappear into the stratosphere. The campaign, incidentally, was going as well as could be expected. Bartlett's not-so-secret illness hadn't done quite as much damage as anyone had feared, and there was a fighting chance of a second term.

 

Sam was so tired he wasn't sure where he was or what day of the week he'd stumbled into. His head was swirling with speech parts, not to mention parts of speech. Even when he was coming down the steps of Air Force One, pages and screens loomed in front of his eyes and threatened to trip him, before receding into an impossible distance and taunting him with their inaccessibility. Being a speechwriter was harder work than most people knew. If it was Wednesday, Donna said, it must be Atlanta. Leo checked the diary and concurred. CJ thought it might as well be Atlantis. Most of them felt strange and disorientated most of the time. That, they profoundly hoped, did not include Bartlett.

 

The guy at reception in the hotel was obsequious. Obsequious but apologetic. There had definitely been a mistake. They could find out whose fault it was later, tracing back through the bookings and paperwork; meanwhile there were too many staff or too few rooms. It was only for one night so surely some of them could share. There were no other vacancies in town. Not in lodgings that were good enough for White House personnel. Sam wouldn't actually have cared if someone had lodged him in a stable but he was too tired to move, or to argue. He watched Donna and CJ walk towards the elevator, both laughing at some joke he couldn't hear, then turned towards the bar. Leo steered him away.

"I'm not imposing my abstinence on you, Sam," he said. "I just don't want to have to carry you upstairs. Get yourself to bed while there's a chance of making it before you fall over. There'll be a mini bar in your room, I'm sure."

 

Sam shouldered his overnight bag and waited for the elevator, clutching his keycard in his hand. The elevator was an ornate, old-fashioned affair, with gilded baroque scrolls surrounding mirrors on each wall. He looked owlishly at his reflection as he was carried to the fourth floor. When had he got those dark circles round his eyes? Why had nobody told him he needed a shave? The room seemed adequate, but at first he couldn't understand why the lights were already on and there were sounds of running water in the bathroom. Then it dawned on him that he had a room-mate. He was sharing with someone and he had no idea who it was.

The someone was singing in the shower and Sam realised it was Josh. He froze in the act of slinging his bag on one of the beds. Panic took over. Did Josh know they were to spend the night together? After that one heady night following the firework display, Josh had withdrawn from him, cool, distant, formally correct. Sam had cried himself to sleep three nights running then confronted his friend. Josh explained that he cared - too much. He was desperately concerned that they should do nothing to jeopardize their positions as White House staffers, nothing to attract the attention of the media, in fact, nothing at all. Then he had apologized - apologized! - for letting his feelings run away with him on July 4th, and begged Sam to forget all about it. Which was fairly stupid on his part and totally impossible on Sam's.

 

Sam dropped his bag and collapsed on the bed, too tired to think straight. A night with Josh. No worries about media or anything - just a hotel snarl up. But Josh wouldn't necessarily agree. He groaned and wished the entire thing had happened on a night when he wasn't so tired. As it was, he would probably be unconscious before Josh came out of the shower. The room was circling round his head, and the light was hurting his eyes, when the bathroom door opened and Josh appeared, wrapped somewhat skimpily in a hotel towel and still shedding drops of water on the carpet. He padded barefoot to the side of Sam's bed and stood looking down at him.

 

"So here we are," he said softly, which for a moment made no sense to Sam at all. Then he sat beside him and moved his long slim fingers down Sam's chest. The touch burnt, even through his shirt. Dreams were becoming reality. Then Josh bent his head to kiss him. The fingers were touching his face now, exploring his eyebrows, cradling his cheeks. Lips that tasted of too much black coffee were brushing his. Sam leaned up into the kiss, his own lips parting, welcoming Josh's tongue. Very, very slowly, they rediscovered each other's mouths. The slowness was blissful and yet unbearable. The fingers traced the whorls of his ears, tangled for a moment in his hair, fastened together behind his neck, supported him while the lips and tongue worked their magic. He'd known he'd missed this. Of course he'd missed it. He'd dreamed, wished… He just hadn't remembered quite how fiercely good it was. For the first time in months, since the heaven of Independence Day, Sam felt whole and at peace. For the first time in weeks, certainly the first time during the campaign, he relaxed. And, to his everlasting shame, fell asleep in the middle of the kiss.

 

He woke in the middle of the night, suddenly alert and lucid. He was tucked into bed, naked. Josh had obviously taken pity on him. Not enough pity, however, to join him. There was a long low shape in the other bed, dimly visible in the streetlight that the hotel curtains could only partially obscure. Sam sighed. Then he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, making as little noise as possible. Josh must be tired too. This seemed to be typical Seaborn luck. His brain hummed a snatch of Send in the Clowns as he made his way back to bed.

 

At first he thought he'd reached the wrong bed, then knew with a sudden flood of delight that Josh had moved while he was in the bathroom. Heaven, it seemed, could be found in Atlanta after all.

 

0000000000

 

There was a schoolroom quality to the conversation at breakfast. Dormitory stories were told and people teased their room-mates. Toby said Leo snored. Donna said CJ hogged the hairdrier and the mirror. Sam couldn't think of anything amusing to say but knew it was expected of him. He was the writer, after all, and not to comment would surely be noted as strange, as evidence of something secret.

"Josh leaves trails of water everywhere," he said. "He doesn't confine it to the bathroom."

The others laughed. Josh grinned, a grin of relief that Sam had found a way to make them like the rest, awkward sharers, glad to be leaving.

"That's me," he agreed. "Water trails, campaign trails, whatever." They headed for the day's events still joking and Sam silently thanked whatever god was watching over them for hiding the traces of a familiarity that might condemn him and Josh. That would create attention that would shock his difficult lover. That might mean they would never be together again.

 

That night, there were no hitches. The rooms were booked - one for each member of the team. Sam managed to reach the elevator at the same time as Josh and mouthed an apology to Toby as the doors closed, leaving them temporarily alone.

"We could…"

"No, Sam, we couldn't."

"But…"

"There's no excuse, no cover."

"I don't mind…"

"Then I have to mind for both of us."

"When?"

"When the opportunity arises, of course."

"Then you do…, you did…"

The elevator halted at the third floor, Josh's floor. Sam had seen his room number as they collected their keys. The doors swished open and a ghost-light touch tingled his lips as Josh left.

 

The ride to the fourth floor didn't seem real. Nor did his beautifully appointed room, with its sanitised facilities, its well- stocked mini-bar, and its plump pillows. He drank too much scotch, brandy, vodka, all the miniatures on offer, tasting none. Then he flung himself on the bed that was his and his alone, face down, burying, in the sterile softness, the tracks of his tears.

 

 

3\. Beach.

 

Sam sat watching the ocean, trailing sand through his fingers. Listening to the plashing of the tiny wavelets that almost reached his toes then retreated shyly. Sat thinking about himself, about politics and about Josh. Especially about Josh. About how Josh wasn't there, had never been there, would never be there. About how he had only twice spent a night with Josh and should stop thinking about those two nights as defining his life. Because they didn't. Couldn't. Politics, now. Politics might define his life except that at the moment Sam Seaborn and his politics were going nowhere, in the middle of California, and he had taken a couple of days 'off' to catch up with himself. He'd come out to a motel up the coast, near a beach that never got busy, and was chilling out and thinking. About himself, and politics. And, of course, about Josh.

 

He dug his toes into the damp sand and squirmed them around. Beaches fascinated him. He liked the feel of sand, the sound of the waves, and the smell of seaweed and brine. He enjoyed swimming and had every intention of swimming this afternoon. Not too far out. He wasn't stupid and he knew it was foolish to go too far alone. But far enough to wash away the mental noise of the campaign and refresh his soul. It felt good to be alone, even though he was, at heart, a social being. Pressing the flesh on this dizzying campaign was wearing. Never being alone was wearing. Never being with the one person he wanted to be with was wearing.

 

Josh, or rather, lack of Josh, had been one of the factors in his decision to come out west. To fight among other people for something that could be won, even if it was highly unlikely, instead of fighting alone for something he could never have. A lover as totally in the closet as Josh made life difficult to say the least. The closet was so closed and so dark Josh barely let him, Sam, enter. And only occasionally. Independence Day. The snarl up on the campaign trail. After that, zilch, nada, deafening and hurtful silence.

 

Sam got up and stretched and strolled to the water's edge. He walked in slowly, liking the way the waves caressed his skin. Liking the coolness. The colours. The emptiness. He swam slowly but powerfully, parallel to the shore, till he was just off the point, then turned and headed back to where he'd left his clothes. Flopped down on his outspread towel, hardly thinking at all, now. Cleansed, emptied, by the Pacific..

 

When he sensed a shadow above him, he thought at first one of the 'minions' from campaign headquarters had found him. This was downtime, personal time, but he'd left the number of the motel in case of emergencies (what emergencies, for goodness' sake?) and the motel desk knew his favourite beach. So when he looked up and saw Josh, it was with a sense of unreality. His dreams had taken on some weird life of their own. Josh couldn't possibly be here. But he was.

He had found him via the motel number and the all-knowing desk. Told them all he was on a flying visit and needed to discuss some speech or other with his erstwhile colleague.

"Actually," he said, "I just couldn't stay away from you any longer." Sam decided that not breathing wasn't particularly sensible. So he gulped instead. And patted the towel feebly, in invitation. Josh lowered his tall graceful body onto the towel and grinned.

"You don't mind? Having your solitude invaded, I mean."

Mind . . .?"

"They were pretty sure you wouldn't want to be disturbed. Said this speech had better be damned important. And the motel staff were nearly as bad."

"What speech would this be, then?" Sam looked sideways under lowered lashes, inching his fingers across the gap between them, itching to touch, hold, check out the reality of this heavensent visitation.

"Oh, the one about how I miss you. How not seeing you for weeks is far worse when I know you're at the other side of the country and not just the other side of Washington. And anyway, I did see you in Washington, but you know what I mean." He flushed, the faint colour showing up his pallor, his city lack of tan. Sam looked at their hands, his own golden beside Josh's.

 

"It's - fantastic to see you." He really must do something about the quaver in his voice. "But hey, you're pale. And this sun's strong. Did you remember to use sunblock? " He sounded like a nanny but Josh seemed amused rather than irritated.

"Yes, I did. I'm covered with the stuff. Your sun isn't getting anywhere near me. But what about you? You're a beautiful colour, but do you still remember to use cream?" Sam laughed and pulled the tube out of his bag. His tan had come slowly, and safely, one of the rewards of mostly outdoor campaigning in the land of sunshine with a strict protection regime.

"Never leave home without it. Time to reapply, as it happens - I've just been for a swim. Want to do my back?" He held out the tube and lay down, not waiting for a reply. Josh's fingers on his spine, soothing the cooling lotion over hot skin, were answer enough. Some steady massaging, then the fingers were exploring the waistband of his swimming trunks.

"Better make sure you're protected everywhere. You might wriggle." There was laughter in Josh's voice and tenderness, too. He went on smoothing the cream in, going beyond the request to see to his back. Lingering on the outside of his thighs. Tracing his inner thighs, oh so gently. Running delicate probes round the edges of fabric. By now Sam couldn't breathe again. And definitely couldn't get up. His trunks were tight anyway. After Josh's ministrations he was indecent.

 

"There's no-one on the beach. Turn over and look at me." The words and the tone said Josh knew perfectly well the effect he'd had. Had meant to have. Sam rolled onto his side and looked up at his tormentor. Drowned in his eyes. Gasped as they came together in a sticky, sandy kiss that lasted an eternity and a nano-second. Ran his hands through soft, wavy hair. Claimed Josh as his own, as his right. Neither man was so stupid as to think they could get away with actual sex out in the open. A totally empty beach could be crowded with figures in the time they could lose themselves in each other. But they kissed and hugged and touched and hungered. Josh stripped and they swam together, warm in the cold water, and hugged again, and reapplied the cream to each other with concentration and delight. Watched the sun begin to set. The tide begin to turn. Josh ran a handful of tiny shells through his fingers.

"Pretty," he said, but he was looking at Sam. Who decided to understand the word applied to the shells.

"Pretty but fragile." Josh raised an eyebrow. "So tiny and delicate," Sam went on. "You can almost see through them."

"But strong. Little homes that protect against the sea." They examined the shells, together. Pink and yellow bands against shiny backgrounds, the colour of transparent sand. Perfect curves. Pale rose interiors hinting at romance. Their cheeks touched and they turned to kiss again, the shells forgotten.

 

00000000000000000000000000

 

Eventually they wandered back to the motel and Sam stammered an explanation to the management about how his friend was only here for a brief visit and could easily share his room. As they had a lot to discuss, and would be up half the night anyway. Josh was giggling when they reached the privacy of the room but offered to go and get another room for himself, to keep Sam's reputation clear. Sam refused, point blank, whereupon they tussled briefly in a mock fight then fell on the bed.

 

Sam had never even envisaged long slow sex in the early evening. Josh's style had seemed limited to late night and getting somewhere before falling asleep. Not so, it seemed. Soon he was naked, very aroused, and awash with sensation. Josh was likewise. He had come prepared with lube and condoms, though Sam pointed out that in their state of normal celibacy they hardly needed the latter. He also offered the sun cream as lube, but was glad Josh didn't accept. Then he gave himself over to being caressed, loved, penetrated. Josh was careful and gentle, allowing him time to relax and adjust before each further thrust, watching his face for signs of pain or shock. Obviouly happy with what he saw. Sam felt delirious with happiness. Filled with happiness and with Josh. Josh's cock as far inside him as they could manage. Josh's sweet murmurings in his ears. The ghost sensations of Josh's recent kisses on his lips. When Sam came, shouting his lover's name and arching against him, pushing against him, Josh gave a small sigh of contentment and shuddered to his own climax, inside Sam.

 

After a while they got up and showered. Dressed and went out, looking for somewhere to eat. There was a sense of occasion that made a restaurant obligatory, a take-away inappropriate. And they found the perfect place just down the road, on the seafront, Ordered lobster and sat watching the dark sea, sipping champagne and stealing happy glances at each other.

 

It was, of course, too good to last, and the couple who had shaken Sam's hand at the hustings a day or two ago, couldn't have known how unwelcome they were now. Sam was the soul of politeness. Introduced his colleague from Washington. Ordered more wine. Insisted they pulled up chairs. And silently wished them at Jericho. A politician is a politician twenty four/seven and they both knew that. Later, Josh said he'd enjoyed watching Sam practising his new trade. But at the time, the spell was broken and they ended with a brandy at the bar instead of a walk down the beach. Sam saw Josh looking at the stand of postcards and cards, saw him buy something from the barman and slip it in his pocket. Thought nothing of it except to wonder lazily if Donna would get a postcard from California.

 

The couple wanted to buy them another drink, but Josh turned them down nicely.

"I've got an early start," he said, then turned to Sam. "You stay if you want." Sam shivered inside, even though he knew Josh didn't expect him to stay.

"I'll turn in too. I've had a tiring day. Battling the Pacific instead of the electorate!" He smiled to take their disappointment away. Wondered what they'd think if they knew how he'd really spent his day. It had been quite tiring, though.

 

When they had said their goodnights and returned to the motel, it was hard, all of a sudden, to recapture their earlier mood. Until Josh started to play with Sam's belt and dropped tiny kisses onto his bowed head.

"How long can you . . .?" Sam hadn't meant to ask but couldn't help himself. Josh's eyebrows quirked.

"For ever, and till tomorrow. Depending, of course, on whether you mean with you in general, or here in particular." And removed all possibility of reply with his lips and his tongue. They fucked again. Made love again. Lay together again in a daze of pleasure. Fell asleep.

 

0000000000000000000000

 

Sam woke early but not early enough. There was no sign that Josh had ever been in the room. The space next to him in the bed was cool and very empty. He got up, feeling sick. "An early start" and "till tomorrow" hadn't prepared him for this. He'd thought, if he'd thought at all, of breakfast, and a last kiss or hug, if not a last fuck. He looked at the clock and tried to remember what time they'd finally fallen asleep. About 2 a.m., he thought. Which meant he'd had Josh for twelve hours. Which was longer than before but . . . He showered reluctantly, not wanting to wash the traces of Josh from his skin. Then ordered breakfast from room service. It arrived promptly - orange juice, croissants and strong coffee. For one.

 

When he finally turned to the mirror to brush his hair, he saw the envelope. Square, white, modest. No name on it. But definitely for him as it hadn't been there the previous day. It was a card. A small square card, its entire face taken up by a photograph of shells and pebbles, water foaming around them. Inside, Josh had written:

 

Go watch the sea for me. Yours, Josh.

 

And tucked into the bottom of the envelope he found a handful of tiny shells.

 

So he would go to the beach as instructed. There was no point in returning to headquarters before tonight, anyway. He wasn't expected and they would wonder why he'd cut short his brief holiday. He packed his trunks and cream and towel and a book. Set off sadly. He swam strongly, fighting the sea. His body and mind felt empty. And sore. The water stung, and made him aware of tender skin. The sea looked bland and uncaring. Totally Josh-less.

 

As he sat on the beach, his book half ignored, he glanced down at the shells near him. What was it Josh had called them? Little homes - strong enough to withstand the pounding of the ocean, for all their delicate beauty. Something flipped in his mind and he looked again at the sea. The tide was coming in and any minute now the water would be curling about his toes. Inexorable. Something to trust. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that his beautiful sexy closet lover would always return to him. Like the tide.

 

Finis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
